


Masquerade

by Elvendork



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Protective!Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=12448993#cmt12448993">prompt</a>. At the sixtieth birthday party of one of Douglas's oldest friends, Martin overhears some unpleasant gossip about his First Officer and is quick to set the record straight, even if it's only to Douglas himself. [Friendship or pre-slash; it's entirely up to you.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> I de-anonned for my other new fill on the meme, so I thought I probably ought to for this one too... I'm torn between wondering why I ever went inactive (not that it was a sudden/conscious decision; I just drifted away), and thinking it was probably for the exact reason that _it takes over my life_...

Martin had known this would be a bad idea from the first suggestion – which had, of course, been Douglas’s. Martin does not fit in with Douglas’s other friends. Martin barely fits in with _Douglas_ , and even then only after several years of constant effort. He feels like a fraud; a fraud who is about to be exposed at any moment, and at the sixtieth birthday of apparently one of Douglas’s oldest friends.

It would be just typical of Martin to accidentally ruin such an event simply be _being_ here, so he keeps to the side-lines, drifting deliberately on the periphery of everyone else’s attention and carefully staying out of the way. He watches and he listens, but he does not engage. He isn’t sure where Douglas has got to; probably somewhere telling outrageous stories to a gaggle of slack-jawed admirers, knowing him.

Martin suppresses a smile. He is supposed to be irritated – exasperated, at least – at the thought, but all he really feels is a soft rush of fondness for his friend and he shakes his head at his own foolishness. He does not know why he agreed to this, but – well, if it makes Douglas happy, Martin is glad to put in the effort.

To be fair, so far nothing has gone disastrously wrong. He and Douglas had both been greeted enthusiastically by the host, and Douglas had immediately been drawn into about five different conversations all at once. Anyone would have thought it was his party, and their host had not seemed to mind at all. It does not surprise Martin to notice that even those guests who do not appear to know Douglas are talking to him like lifelong friends before the first hour is up. He is immensely popular – or at least, he seems to be.

Martin is just wandering absently towards the drinks table at the far end of the large garden for a refill when he hears it. He doesn’t mean to. He does a lot of things without meaning to. He wishes he hadn’t done this, because now he has no idea how he is supposed to react. He freezes.

‘… surprised he was even invited,’ someone is saying, none too quietly. The speaker is a woman, Douglas’s age or a little older, tall and with iron-grey hair scraped ruthlessly back into a very tight bun. The expression on her face would look concerned, if not for the all too evident joy at such an opportunity to gossip. Martin pauses. He does not want to walk in on the middle of a conversation, but he would look an idiot to just turn back around now – and he has to admit, he is curious.

‘How do you mean?’ the woman’s companion, a balding man slightly older and much plumper than she is, asks. They are apparently oblivious to Martin’s presence. Martin edges away slightly, taking refuge half behind a group of younger guests who are discussing some sport Martin is not remotely interested in. He is now straining to hear the original conversation and at the same time desperately trying to convince himself to just move out of earshot. It is none of his business, and yet…

‘Well, haven’t you _heard_?’ the woman asks, looking positively delighted at the prospect of informing fresh ears about old scandals. ‘Dreadful business, really – you know he used to be a Captain at Air England?’

Now Martin’s attention is definitely caught. It sounds, almost unmistakably, as though they are talking about Douglas – and not very favourably. He leans – he hopes casually – against the table and deliberately looks the other way, though ruins the effect slightly by biting his lip and frowning with growing concern.

‘Used to be?’ the man queries, taking a sandwich from one of the many plates arrayed beside them and listening avidly.

‘My, you _have_ been out of the loop,’ his informer replies, with barely concealed relish. ‘He was fired, oh – _years_ ago now – we quite lost track of him for a while, and then he shows up again at this dreadful little airline as a _First Officer_ , would you believe…’

Martin’s insides are writhing with annoyance. How _dare_ she? He does not even register that he is now gripping the edge of the table so hard that his fingers are hurting. He grits his teeth, wanting desperately to move away, not wanting to hear this – and unable to make himself move.

‘You don’t say? No wonder he dropped off the radar…’

‘Well, quite. He didn’t want _that_ getting around, did he? Practically bankrupt, this place, and their plane’s absolutely falling apart. Gerald saw it oh, six months ago? They were in Turkey I believe – isn’t that right Gerald?’ the woman calls to someone a short distance away, who looks up absent-mindedly and wanders over with the same sort of casual arrogance that many of the attending guests are positively oozing from their every pore.

‘Isn’t what right?’ the man – presumably Gerald – asks. He has a deep, thick voice that immediately grates on Martin’s nerves for no particular reason that he can identify, especially as the tone is not totally dissimilar to Douglas’s.

‘Douglas Richardson,’ the woman replies. Martin’s jaw is beginning to hurt from the effort of not saying anything. If he tries, he will only make things worse. He knows he will; he always does. And yet it feels like a betrayal to simply stand and listen to these things without even attempting to defend Douglas. He cannot move away, either; it feels almost as if he _has_ to stay, to bear witness somehow. For what, he isn’t sure.

‘Oh, I ran into him a few months back, you wouldn’t believe the state of the thing he’s flying now –’

‘I know, that’s what I’ve just been telling Andrew –’

‘And did you know he’s been divorced _three times_ now?’ Gerald interrupts; the woman’s eyes widen almost comically at the same time as what could almost pass for a pitying look crosses her features, before making way for the same sort of savage pleasure as has dominated her face since Martin first laid eyes on her.

‘I never even knew he’d been _married_ three times,’ the man named Andrew admits.

‘Oh yes, and a positive string of girlfriends in between, apparently – well,’ she laughs, apparently in a show of delicate embarrassment. ‘I say between, but you know Douglas…’

 _No_ , thinks Martin furiously. _No, you obviously don’t_. How dare they? How _dare_ they say these things about Douglas? How dare they insinuate that he would have cheated on – on _anyone_? How dare they discuss him in such an openly disdainful way? It is even worse after seeing them greet him so enthusiastically to begin with; the lying, two-faced, vindictive –

‘… and the drinking won’t have helped –’

‘ _Drinking_?’

‘Oh yes, it was terrible, really quite terrible to see – of course he hasn’t touched a drop in years, or so he says –’

If Martin grips the table edge any harder, his fingers are going to break under the strain. He can practically feel his teeth cracking. Hot rage is coursing through his body in floods.

‘Not really a surprise then is it, with all that – poor bloke –’

‘Oh don’t you believe it, he’s only got himself to blame –’

‘Have you seen that hapless young thing he brought with him today? I can’t tell if he’s a date or a friend or what. Perhaps that’s just the best he can do now, some trainee pilot he’s coerced into tagging along, probably promised him all sorts of introductions –’

‘As if Richardson has a single connection _left_ in the aviation industry –’

‘Oh you’d be surprised, all _sorts_ of dodgy dealings, I wouldn’t believe the half of it if it weren’t for my niece, she knows a girl who flies with some American airline you see, and –’

‘It’s all just hearsay though, isn’t it?’

‘Oh no, I have it from a reliable source –’

Martin’s temper has long since reached boiling point. The only reason he hasn’t already started shouting is that he seems to have bypassed that stage and gone straight into being too incensed to speak. He is hearing the conversation as though from far away now, tuning in and out like a poor quality radio. He hears snatches, snippets of information – of tenfold magnified gossip told in sneering voices that drip alternately with false sympathy and real delight too strong to disguise.

‘Still though, I’d never have expected him to fall _quite_ so low…’

‘He was always heading that way – _why_ Anthony insisted on inviting him I’ll never know…’

Martin has just – finally – decided that he can’t take any more of this and is steeling himself to go and – say something, do something, he doesn’t know what, just something that isn’t standing here _listening_ – when another, very familiar voice cuts in.

‘I see you’ve stumbled across the not-so-secret dirty underbelly of these parties quite quickly,’ Douglas says, not whispering exactly but keeping his voice low enough that only Martin is able to hear. Martin practically jumps out of his skin and whirls around to face Douglas, who is standing quite casually beside him and looking for all the world as though he hears this sort of conversation every day. He seems entirely unbothered by it.

‘You – I wasn’t –’

‘Relax, Martin. I know what they really think of me. I should have known you would find out eventually if I brought you along.’

‘Why did you?’ Martin asks. It is not what he meant to say, but he does not correct himself. Douglas shrugs, leaning back against the table himself and folding his arms, surveying the garden through apparently careless eyes. Martin, no longer leaning on anything, watches him closely and sees for the first time the shadows in Douglas’s expression, the echoing memories behind his eyes. Have they always been there and Martin is just now noticing them, or have they been brought out by hearing such ignorant gossip? Surely he can’t _believe_ …?

‘I thought it would be nice to have someone along whose company I could still stand.’

‘…Oh,’ Martin is lost for what to say to that. He is both touched and extremely saddened by the admission. There is a brief moment – very brief – when he wonders if perhaps this is some trick of Douglas’s, some elaborate ploy to get Martin to feel sorry for him – but there is, for a split second, such raw honesty in Douglas’s face and voice that this notion is squashed even before it has fully formed.

‘You’re wondering why I still came if I don’t get on with any of the guests, aren’t you?’ Douglas raises an eyebrow and glances sideways at Martin before looking away across the garden again.

‘Well… yes,’ Martin admits. ‘You don’t have to tell me though!’ he adds hastily, worried he might be straying into dangerous territory and keen to give both himself and Douglas a way out before this confession gets too far.

‘It’s not all of them,’ Douglas explains, unusually forthcoming with the information. Martin stands very still as he listens, half afraid that if he moves he will snap Douglas out of this contemplative mood and back into his perpetually unflappable persona. He is – he has to admit – morbidly curious about this new side of Douglas. ‘Some of them really are still good friends – or at least they haven’t stooped low enough to take part in Veronica’s particular brand of gossip just yet. Anthony’s not a bad chap, he just has questionable associates.’

‘So do you, it seems,’ Martin replies without thinking.

‘Touché,’ Douglas allows. Then, ‘I don’t know,’ he sighs. ‘It’s nostalgia, I suppose. There was a time I was – well, I suppose I was how you imagined me to be before you heard that little gem of a discussion just now. It’s nice to pretend I still have that, sometimes.’ Douglas is still not looking at Martin, and his tone is carefully neutral; much _too_ casual, if Martin is any judge, and more resigned than he ever remembers hearing it before. It is as though Douglas has given up; given up the pretence of invulnerability and infallibility, given up the effort to be the Sky God he claims to be, and it is as though it is almost a relief to do so. As if the effort of it has finally become too much, and faced with the direct evidence of the utter failure of his ploy… he has simply let it go.

‘Douglas, I…’ Martin struggles for words. His anger has become muted in the face of this unexpected confession; still smouldering away in his chest, but forced aside by a heavy, aching sadness that he never would have imagined he could associate with Douglas. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not _your_ fault,’ Douglas replies. ‘It is how it is. God knows I’ve made mistakes in my life; I’m paying for them now, that’s all. They’re right, anyway. I can hardly blame them for the truth.’

‘It is _not_ the truth!’ Martin snaps vehemently. Douglas looks around at last, startled.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You don’t seriously believe any of that – that rubbish, do you?’

‘Not the details, no,’ Douglas says, still in that calm, easy tone that Martin is coming to _hate_. ‘I assure you, I have never been unfaithful to a partner in my life. I really haven’t had a drop of alcohol in years. And the claptrap about you is just them inventing things because they can’t bear the thought that anyone halfway decent would still associate with me – but the general theme is hardly that far off the mark, you have to admit.’

‘I do _not_ have to admit any such thing,’ Martin hisses. ‘What are you talking about? What happened to you being good at everything you try, to – to God doing mysterious things for you –’

‘I believe I said He did _lovely_ things for me.’

‘To _all of that_! What happened to – why are you _smiling_?’

‘Martin, you seem to be labouring under the misapprehension that talent and failure are mutually exclusive. I am, for example, a frankly terrific pilot – and yet I lost my high-ranking, well-paid job at a prestigious airline because I made a stupid mistake. I am an excellent cook but, it seems, a terrible husband.’

‘You’re not –’

‘I can rescue our run-down, tin-pot little mess of an airline from any number of misfortunes, but I cannot raise my own children.’

‘Douglas –’

‘I apparently have very few real friends left in the world, and –’

‘Douglas, _stop_!’ Martin raises his voice now, but he hardly notices the disgruntled glances of the surrounding guests. He just has to make Douglas be _quiet_. The worst part of all is the matter-of-fact tone that Douglas is listing his shortcomings in; it is not as though he resents them, not as though he is looking for sympathy. He is reporting reality, and that is all. He looks genuinely startled at Martin’s outburst.

‘Stop what?’ he asks, frowning. ‘Don’t tell me you’re about to try and deny any of that?’

‘That’s not – I’m not – this is _ridiculous_ , you’re… you’re _you_ , and they obviously don’t even know it.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me,’ Douglas replies, with enough of a hint of his usual superiority that Martin finds himself calming down a little.

‘Look, okay, you – your marriages… didn’t really work out,’ he allows slowly.

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘And – okay, getting fired from Air England _was_ your fault,’ Martin admits.

‘I’m feeling reassured already.’

‘Shut up, will you? This is hard enough as it is.’

‘Shutting up, Sir,’ Douglas agrees smoothly. There is an odd expression on his face now; something like an attempt at levity and smugness, but undermined by definite curiosity, and the beginnings of a genuinely grateful smile.

‘Anyway, the point is – the point is; I know you’ve made mistakes. I know your life isn’t perfect.’ Here, Martin pauses, although apparently not consciously; he simply expects so strongly to be interrupted that he leaves time for it. Douglas remains obediently silent, however, and Martin stumbles on. ‘But that doesn’t mean that those – _people_ – have any right to talk to you about that. They obviously don’t even know you –’

‘And you do?’ Douglas cuts in, apparently unable to help himself.

‘Yes,’ Martin replies shortly, ‘I do. I know that you love your daughters more than anything in the world, and you would do anything for them. I know that you’re there for them as much as you can be, and you wish that could be more. I know that you were always faithful to Helena; I know that you loved her, and I know how much effort you put into making her happy. I know that you’re an alcoholic and you haven’t had a drink in years, and I don’t pretend to know how hard that must have been. I know, by the way, that anyone with your talents and skill at manipulating people would probably be able to get a job almost anywhere they liked if they really put the effort in, and yet you’ve _chosen_ to stay at MJN. I know you let me win more word games than you need to. I know that Arthur –’

‘Please, Martin; I’m not entirely sure that Arthur doesn’t still believe in the Tooth Fairy –’

‘Seriously, Douglas, be quiet. I mean it. Arthur thinks the world of you. You’re more of a father figure to him than Gordon has ever been, and that’s not something he’s told me, that’s something that anyone with eyes can see without even trying.’

There is a long moment of silence while Martin steadily turns red and Douglas’s eyebrows climb once more towards his hairline.

‘Well,’ says Douglas eventually. ‘Thank you for that.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Martin mutters, as the reality of his outburst begins to settle in.

‘I never knew you thought that highly of me.’

‘Right,’ Martin rolls his eyes, apparently forgetting how this conversation was started in the first place.

‘I mean it,’ Douglas presses, sounding half-touched, half-amused. ‘I’m flattered.’

‘This is where I find out this whole thing really was some sort of set up, isn’t it?’ Martin asks drily, glancing around pointedly as though looking for hidden cameras.

‘No,’ says Douglas sincerely. ‘Although you can pretend it was, if it makes you feel better.’ He smirks, and Martin lets out a sharp huff of laughter.

‘I might just do that,’ he admits, with a sheepish grin. Douglas smiles gently.

‘Seriously, though, Martin,’ he says, ‘thank you.’

‘Seriously, though, Douglas,’ Martin parrots, sounding somehow nervous and adamant at the same time, ‘don’t ever mention it again.’


End file.
